


Space Travel is Boring

by alliterated



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Colepaldi, F/M, Jenna Coleman's CV, Peter Capaldi's space shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliterated/pseuds/alliterated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenna slaps Peter more than once and they both kinda like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space Travel is Boring

The first time she slaps him so hard that he stumbles backwards over the arm of a chair. His limbs flail wildly like an upended spider. He rights himself and looks at her with wide astonished eyes. “Here I was worried you’d be a bit of a soft touch.”

“Because I’m small?” she asks.

“Well, yes,” he blurts. “What I meant was —”

“I’m ready for another go,” she tells him, and raises her hand. “Yeah?”

He backs away from her. “I haven’t recovered from the first one.”

“There’s no point if you’re expecting it,” she replies, and slaps him once again. “How’s that?”

“It was a slap!” he reminds her, his accent thickening. “How’d you think?”

It’s then that she notices his un-slapped cheek is red and she tilts her head curiously. She hadn’t expected to spend mid-morning in his trailer and slapping him, but she can’t deny a little part of her is enjoying it. Maybe a not so little part.

“What?” he asks.

She shakes her head and slaps him a third time. The resulting sound is brilliant and she squeals in delight. 

He gives her an odd smile in that he’s sort of baring his teeth at her. The effect is somewhat diminished as he’s moved so that the chair is between them and she can’t reach him. “Been practicing?”

“No.” She takes a few steps towards him. “Just a natural, I suppose.”

“Something to put on your CV,” he jokes.

She thinks about it. “That might scare some people.”

He sidesteps the chair, albeit warily. “Nothing wrong with a little fear.”

She glances up at him and decides he would seem slightly mad even without the heft of those eyebrows. “I scare you?”

“You keep me on my toes,” he responds, vaguely. “On my tippiest of toes.”

She points to his chest. “Does your wife know you have a shirt covered in galaxies?”

He laughs. “She bought it for me. And they’re actually nebulae.”

“My mistake,” she comments.

“Who wouldn’t want a shirt that shows the birth of stars?” he asks.

She takes a few seconds to scrutinize his face. Most of his humor is dry and sometimes it’s hard to figure out if he’s telling the truth. She likes that he makes her work for it. “You’re having a laugh.”

“No laughs here.” He looks down at himself. “Orion is in fact a stellar nursery.”

She pokes him in the chest. “Orion?” she guesses.

“No, no.” He takes her hand and moves it lower. “That is Orion.”

She clears her throat and stares at her finger, which is about three inches above his belt. She squints at the design on his shirt until the fabric appears to start undulating. He’s trying not to laugh. That’s when she knows. “These aren’t nebulae?”

He giggles briefly and shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”

She offers him a tight smile and then brings her hand square across his face. It’s the hardest of all the slaps and she keeps her hand on his cheek afterward, rubbing away the heat of the slap. His face doesn’t feel as sharp as it looks. Or as cold.

He steps closer until the tips of both of their left shoes are touching. “My favorite so far.”

“You’re mad,” she tells him, and pats his face. “You like being slapped.”

“I like you slapping me,” he corrects.

This surprises her. She thinks about her experience of knowing him and the strange sort of comfort it provides. Two spots of color appear on her cheeks. “I like how you say Clara.”

“Clara, Clara, Clara … “ he says with a low voice and clear enunciation. He checks his watch and his expression changes. “Time Lord time.”

“Isn’t it always, though?” she asks, surprising herself with how tired she sounds. She holds up a hand to stop him saying whatever he was going to say. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he replies. “Thanks for slapping me.”

She laughs. “Anytime.”

He points at her with an impossibly long finger. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

She watches the thick column of muscle on the side of his neck tense and then relax. She wonders about his weird nervous energy that mostly presents itself in hand gestures and the reverence he has for Doctor Who.

“Jenna?” he asks, concerned.

She glances up and up until she sees his face. “You should hold me to it.”

He nods and gestures to his clothes. “I need to … uh —”

“I’m going,” she says, and thinks maybe that’s how it should be.


End file.
